5 Times Someone Got Mayor Queen & Felicity Smoak's Relationship Wrong
by so caffeinated
Summary: Five Times Someone Totally Got Mayor Queen and Felicity Smoak's Relationship Wrong (and one time they were exactly right) Sometimes the view from the outside isn't exactly clear. And sometimes it's spot-on.
1. Chapter 1

Christy's never won the lotto. But as the new owner of a crisply printed degree in Political Science from Star City University, immediately getting an internship in the mayor's office feels very much like hitting the jackpot.

So what if she's mostly grabbing coffee and answering phones? It's experience in her field and it actually _pays_ and wow is that a miracle in this economy. All of her friends are exceedingly jealous of the fact that she got a paying internship alone, nevermind the fact that it's in newly-single, absurdly attractive Mayor Abs-a-lot's office.

Honestly. The television doesn't do the man justice. Her vote had solidly been in Oliver Queen's column, anyhow, even as a write-in candidate. But now? _Hello_ Mr. Mayor.

She's had more former classmates meet her for coffee at work than they _ever_ did for study dates in school. And if they're there mostly to try and sneak a peek at Oliver Queen in a god-damned three-piece suit… well, she can't really blame them for that, can she?

But, anyhow, ridiculously good looking boss or not, Christy's a professional. She's good at her job and she only indulges in checking him out when she's absolutely certain he's involved in something else and won't notice.

Probably.

Most of the time.

Unsurprisingly, Christy loves her job. She's wanted to work in politics since she was six and watched her parents get their citizenships. Most of her friends grew up wanting to be teachers or singers, but not Christy. No, she grew up wanting to be Governor. She wanted to represent her country and make a _difference_. She still does. So having a chance to play even the smallest part in doing that - and for a Mayor whose policies she actually supports, no less - that's everything.

It's completely more important than the eye candy that walks past her desk several times a day.

" _He's probably a sleezebag_ ," Priya had said when they'd all met up for drinks and she'd told her college friends where she'd be working. " _After all, there had to be_ some _reason he dropped out of the race when he was winning_."

" _Sex scandal for sure,_ " Mitch had declared. " _He drops out and then his fiancee leaves him a week later? Come on. We all know what that means_."

" _His family was totally the Kennedys in the first place. And it's not like he doesn't have the reputation_ ," Erica had chimed in.

And… okay, she'd sort of assumed they were right. Because why else would someone who was clearly winning an election drop out? Sex or drugs, right? He doesn't seem the druggie-type to her and he does seem… well… the sex-type, if she's being honest. So, yeah, she'd figured they were right and had been full on debating whether or not she'd be willing to play the part of one of _those_ interns - not, she'd decided after some seriously difficult soul searching - but then nothing was at all like she expected.

For one thing, Mayor Queen is _super_ professional. With everyone. All the time. And he's in the office _a lot_. There's days she's sort of wondered if he slept there because he's there when she gets in and he's there when she leaves and, though he's changed, he definitely doesn't look rested. But, she figures maybe he's just a workaholic. Maybe _that's_ why he and his fiancee broke up.

But that's the other weird thing. His ex-fiancee.

So, Christy's got three ex-boyfriends, right? Two of them she's blocked on FaceBook and cut their faces out of pictures. While the other one ended on 'friendly terms,' that only equates to forced smiles at group gatherings where they share mutual friends. She is absolutely not visiting Ian at work. Not ever. Not for anything. And definitely not on a semi-regular basis. In her admittedly-limited-experience, that's just not a thing you _do_ with an ex you were serious about. And she can't imagine that being different for anyone. So Felicity Smoak - who she had been like 95% certain her boss had cheated on - visiting Mayor Queen at work at least twice a week is a thing she utterly cannot understand.

And _trust her_ … she's tried.

The very first time Ms. Smoak had showed up, Christy had recognized her on sight. Because, yeah, she's a recent Poli Sci graduate and the whole Olicity thing was sort of buzz-worthy to the point where she wrote a paper about it last year.

Which is not a thing her boss needs to know about. Ever.

But, anyhow, Felicity Smoak had showed up and Christy had been steeling herself to show the woman the door the moment the mayor had said he wouldn't see her. Because who _would_? Oliver Queen, apparently, because her assumption hadn't held up. Not by any stretch of the imagination.

It'd sort of been the opposite.

Mayor Queen had stood up and straightened his immaculate three-piece suit - as if it'd needed that - and looked as nervous as a teenager about to ask a girl to the prom. And, damn if that wasn't the moment Christy realized she was going to be ridiculously protective of her mayor. Next time she'd had drinks with the friends from school they'd _totally_ gotten an earful because Mayor Queen is the best politician ever and honest and not at all a sleezebag and saying otherwise is like kicking an actual puppy and the most unamerican thing ever and how dare they?

But, yeah. Felicity Smoak.

They're not really broken up.

That's what Christy decides by the end of her first month, anyhow. How can they be? His focus only drifts from work when she's around. He only really smiles when she's there. He'll drop _anything_ for her - up to and including a call from the Governor. So for some reason they have a secret romance. Is it the craziness of the press and the fact that they have an actual name-squish ship-name that routinely trends? Is it the pressures of her career, trying to win back a company once run by not one, but _two_ of her ex-boyfriends? Is it some crazy former flame blackmailing one of them with nudes to stay apart? Is it just stupidly hot for them to keep it a hidden? Christy doesn't know, but what she _does_ know is that they are absolutely not broken up. She's certain of it. Absolutely drop-dead certain.

But that doesn't make it easier to figure out what to call her.

This week, Margie, the sixty-something secretary whose hair is more purple than red and whose desk is covered with photos of every cat she ever owned, is on vacation. Christy's glad for a lot of reasons, which include but are not limited to not having to hear about Mister Fluffington's latest adventures with a laser pointer. But the biggest reason is that she gets to fill in. She gets actual responsibility over the mayor's calendar and that's… that's _awesome_ and a responsibility she both loves and will absolutely include on her resume.

But then Felicity Smoak walks in and Christy freezes.

She knew, she _knew_ this would happen. They don't have a standing date - that she can tell, anyhow - but it's more regular than not these days and she _knew_ this would happen.

"Oh, Margie's… I forgot she's on vacation. It's Christy right? Is it Christy or Chrissy? Ugh, you'd think I'd get that right. I'm sorry. I totally don't mean to offend you. Are you offended? Please don't be offended?" Ms. Smoak asks in a rather impressive display of social anxiety that completely throws Christy on account of she's an _intern_ and this is - she's pretty sure - her boss' girlfriend.

Or maybe fiancee. She's not exactly sure.

"It's Christy," she replies with a slight shrug. "But it's fine. I don't expect you to remember me. I'm just an assistant."

Something about that thoroughly unsettles the soon-to-be-reappointed CEO - if the scuttlebutt is right anyhow - and Ms. Smoak pauses, collecting her words before she speaks again in a far more composed manner.

"There's nothing ' _just'_ about an assistant, Christy," she advises with an intensity that sort of shakes the 22-year-old and reminds her thoroughly that this woman once ran a billion dollar company. "Believe me, I'm well aware of exactly how much Oliver relies on his assistants."

Oh… that's right… she _would_ know all about that, wouldn't she?

"Um, well… thanks," Christy replies, flushing a bit, both at the praise and her own embarrassment. "I appreciate that. I'll just… go assist… see if he's free."

Ms. Smoak smiles brightly at that before she tamps it down and Christy thinks… well, she thinks the only other time she sees a smile like that is when she tells the mayor that Felicity Smoak is there. And, damn it if she isn't rooting for this whole Olicity thing. It kinda rocks getting a whole behind the scenes sneak peek at it all.

She returns Ms. Smoak's smile before getting up and heading back to the mayor's office. As usual, he's studying some papers intently, pen in hand and intense look of scrutiny on his face. There's this whole proposal on hiking parking rates in the business district that's completely absorbed his time lately and she knows he's very invested in the details of it and how it's going to affect local businesses, but _wow_ … it's _parking_ … and as much as she loves government, she's sorta bored just thinking about it.

"Christy," he greets, rubbing the space directly in between his eyebrows like he's trying to work out the wrinkle that's formed from furrowing his brow at the papers for so long. "Do I have a meeting?"

"Your, uh…" she flounders for a second. Because she _knows_ what she calls Ms. Smoak in her head - ' _your fiancee is here'_ or ' _your girlfriend is here_ ' flit through her mind - but she doesn't know what to actually call her. "Your person is here."

Right. As options go, that might be the worst.

He stops and blinks at her for a long moment, trying to process precisely what she's saying and somewhat failing in the endeavor.

"I think you're going to have to be a little more specific than that," he says slowly after a few beats.

"I don't know what to call her!" Christy blurts out suddenly. And - oh God - why can't she stop talking? "Your… she's your person. I don't have another word for it. Your former assistant? Your former fiancee? That awesome lady you're totally still madly in love with but don't publicly acknowledge any kind of relationship with? What do _you_ call her?"

Oh. Dear. God.

She's gonna be fired. She's gonna be fired so hard that her next job - should she ever get one - might fire her before they hire her, as the firing from _this_ job will carry over. Not that that actually makes sense, but it seems true and Christy absolutely feels the blood drain from her face as the mayor - the actual mayor - looks back at her in shock.

"Oh, I'm an idiot," she moans to herself.

To her absolute, eternal surprise, this is when the mayor starts laughing. And not like a nervous chuckle either. It's an actual full-on laugh the likes of which she's hadn't previously realized he was capable of. And when she dares to look up, he's grinning too.

If she's not fired, she's working for this man for life. Or until she's Governor. Whichever comes first. Because, dear God, she owes him at this point and anyone who can take that kind of outburst in stride deserves more loyalty than just her vote.

"My… person," he echoes, the edges of his eyes crinkling in a stupidly attractive way as he mulls the word. "I think I like that."

"Oh thank God," Christy sighs in relief.

"You can send her in," the mayor tells her and she nods, turning to leave as quickly as she possibly can. But he stops her. "And Christy?"

She pauses, looks back with wide eyes as she bites her lower lip so fiercely that it feels like she might draw blood.

"Margie's retiring at the end of the summer," he informs her. "I don't know if you have other plans after this internship, but if you'd consider staying on staff, I'd be happy to have you here."

Yeah… career lotto jackpot. Absolutely.


	2. Chapter 2

Dwight knows a gold-digger when he sees one. He should, considering how much he pays in alimony to his three ex-wives. That has to have bought him _something_ right? Well it has. He's developed a keen eye for women out to drain a bank account dry.

Some are obvious - like his second ex-wife, Eliza, in hindsight. Others hide it better.

Still… money trails don't lie and Dwight is _very_ good at following the dollars.

Freelance journalism might not be the most lucrative of careers, but after four years on staff as a finance and business reporter and six covering politics, Dwight's got the experience and name-recognition he needs to be his own boss. He likes it. Not _just_ because he doesn't have wages that they can garnish and steal from him when he gets behind on paying his ex-wives, but that's definitely part of it.

There's nothing Dwight likes quite as much as he likes money. The intricacies of it, what people will do for it, the stories that transactions tell. He considers himself an expert in the field and an artist in how he presents the stories he finds. A Hemingway of financial forensics, if you will. Very possibly, he might be the most important reporter since Woodward and Bernstein.

At least, in his opinion.

Never let it be said that Dwight Sorenson lacks a sense of self worth.

So, while every other reporter in Star CIty is covering the narrowly avoided local nuclear crisis, Dwight takes a different path and does what he does best.

He follows the money.

When the dust settles and the general population stops running around like Chicken Little, Dwight looks to those standing on the pile of rubble left behind. And this time… well it's no surprise to see a Queen at the top of the heap. That's always been the way of things in Star City, hasn't it? The Queens, the Merlyns, the Bowens, the Deardens back in their day. Dwight's never been at their level of power or wealth, but his great-grandfather's sister married into the Bowen family about a hundred years ago, so he feels like he's adjacent to it. These are still his people, still the world where he really belongs, even if his bank account and last name don't show it.

But anyhow. Oliver Queen suddenly in charge of the city isn't a surprise to anyone with half a lick of common sense. And, for that matter, neither is Felicity Smoak regaining control of Palmer Tech the second everything calms back down.

The Oliver Queens of the world are best suited for high-level politics. And the Felicity Smoaks of the world… well, Dwight has enough experience with them to know they'll sap the Oliver Queens and Ray Palmers of the world of enough funds to claw their way up to the lap of luxury.

She's crafty, that Smoak girl. She doesn't _look_ the part of honey trap. She's cute and all, don't get him wrong; he wouldn't kick her outta bed. But she's hot in that unassuming, nerdy schoolgirl kind of way. That's because she's _clever_ though. She obviously knows how to play up what advantages she's got.

Over the past three years, she's gone from IT tech to executive assistant to CEO of a Fortune 500 company. That's not just an impressive rise to power, it's an impossible one. That's a story all on its own, but Dwight's interest is always, _always_ the money behind it.

And the Smoak girl's money? Yeah, that tells a tale all on its own. One he's more than happy to put into print and even the more respectable papers are willing to buy on sight.

The daughter of a single mom serving cocktails in Vegas doesn't wind up at the top of the business food chain, with a billion dollar net worth by the age of 25, without something far more interesting than hard work going on. And Dwight's pretty sure he's got a good beat on what it was.

Sometimes money is hard to follow. There are complicated transactions that try to mask where the funds came from or so many hands in the pot it's hard to tell how the pieces fall into place. Not this time. It's as easy as one, two, three.

As easy as Queen, Palmer, Smoak.

If it just came down to Ray Palmer being far more tech savvy than business savvy when he left everything to his girlfriend who _happened_ to be the former CEO's executive assistant, that would have been one thing. An unlikely coincidence and enough for him to investigate for sure, but not a smoking gun, so to speak. Even the fact that she moved on to get engaged to that former CEO whose name is worth as least as much as the money Palmer left her could be written off as happenstance. This is more than that. This goes back further than anyone seems to have imagined.

Because Oliver Queen gave Felicity Smoak a million dollars before anyone even knew her name.

A hard look at the last few years of Felicity Smoak's life tells Dwight one thing - she's been clawing her way up from the get-go. He's holdin' on to that detail about the million bucks for now, though. It's his golden ticket and he knows it. Gotta sell more than one story, after all. One expose is great, but a series of them? Well… Dwight likes dollar signs best of all when they belong to him.

The first in the series hit the stands today, above the fold Starling City Press, at that. Dwight's pretty sure nothing could ruin his day at this point. He's flying high with cash in his metaphorical pocket, his name in print, and a call from The Gotham Herald asking if he wouldn't be interested in heading up their way to do a little digging in their neck of the woods, too. But then, to make matters even better, he gets a call asking him to come by the mayor's office.

Yeah, Dwight's pretty sure he knows what this is about. Obviously the mayor can't go saying much about his ex - that's bad politics - but he's gotta be thrilled that somebody finally figured her game out and went public with it. Dwight would sure as hell be delighted if anybody put a spotlight on his conniving ex-wives and he figures he and Oliver Queen aren't actually all that different. They're both locals, both have ties to respectable families, both out the money they really should have, both career men. They even both work out - Dwight hits the gym at least once a week since divorce number three and not only to check out Liesl, the hot yoga instructor he's pretty sure is into him.

So, it's with supreme confidence and a solid spring in his step that Dwight strides into Mayor Queen's office. It doesn't falter, not even with Oliver Queen's little intern glares at him.

What's her name, again? Carrie? Missy? Chrissy? He doesn't know. It really doesn't matter. She's just a pretty face who looks good in a skirt - he'll give the mayor this much, he sure knows how to surround himself with some terrific eye candy - it's not like she's worth remembering.

"Hey there, little lady," Dwight says, offering his best million-dollar-grin. "I've got a meeting with your boss, if you'd let him know I'm here."

Missy or Chrissy or whatever makes no move to stand up, though. For a moment, he wonders if she has a hearing problem because this is her job, to relay messages and make copies and coffee, right? But, no. She doesn't move. She doesn't say anything either, not until he opens his mouth to repeat himself slower and with more annunciation.

"It's Ms. Chan to you," she counters primly. Prissy? Is her name Prissy? It is now, in his head anyhow. Who the hell does she think she is?

"Sure," Dwight agrees, because wasting time debating anything at all with a college girl isn't worth it. "How about you go let the mayor know I'm here. He's expecting me."

The girl's obviously in a tizzy about something - hormones, Dwight decides after a moment, she must be having lady problems - but she does get up and go back to the mayor's office. This is good because that's her _job_. The work ethic kids have these days… they should be embarrassed, can't even be bothered to get up and tell their very important superiors that their scheduled appointment is here.

Prissy won't amount to much, Dwight can tell.

She's gone just long enough that Dwight starts to wonder if she got lost on the way to find the mayor or if she took a trip out the side door to hit up Starbucks before coming back. But then she does return and it's with an entirely unearned, satisfied smile on her face.

Quite suddenly, he really doesn't like Prissy.

"You can go back now," she relays. "He's waiting for you."

"Thank you," Dwight says, because he has manners and maybe this kid can learn by example.

"Oh… you're very welcome," Prissy smiles toothily. Maybe she needs practice. It looks vicious rather than sincere and it certainly isn't welcoming.

She's a terrible secretary.

But he's done thinking about Prissy. More important things to move onto. With his chin held high, Dwight strides into the mayor's office, expecting a blinding grin and a handshake from the affable mayor.

He's more than a little confused when the man doesn't even look up from the paperwork in front of him for a long moment. Had Prissy lied? Had she even told the mayor that he was here? Dwight's confused and he doesn't like it.

"Have a seat," the mayor tells him without glancing his direction.

Dwight does. The chair seems more uncomfortable than usual and he wonders for a moment if Prissy switched it out for one of the broken ones in the conference room. It squeaks and the feet are uneven, making it tilt back and forth ever-so-slightly as he shifts his weight.

It's almost like it's _designed_ to make him uncomfortable.

The mayor makes a dissatisfied noise that sounds very much like a grumble and he grimaces as he jots down a note in red pen on whatever it is he's looking at.

It's the near-silence that finally gets to Dwight, after a minute or so.

"Listen-" Dwight ventures uncomfortably, only to be cut off sharply as the mayor looks up and hones all of his attention on him.

"No," Mayor Queen tells him. "I don't think I will listen. I've spent the better part of my morning dealing with what you've had to say already. I'm about done listening to you."

To say Dwight is stunned is a bit of an understatement. But the mayor's far from done.

"You're going to issue an apology to Felicity and hand over your press pass," the mayor announces.

Dwight realizes far, _far_ too late that he and the mayor are absolutely nothing alike.

"I will not!" Dwight protests.

"Oh, you will," the mayor tells him, standing up to his full, imposing height. "That whole article is an embarrassment to the papers who ran it _and_ to you personally. I've already talked to the editors. They're retracting the story in tomorrow's paper, but I want the apology from you. In writing and in person."

"I have evidence!" Dwight insists. "That upstart was toying with you and Palmer from the beginning just to get her hands on money and power. Can't you see that? She needs to be brought down a notch!"

The way the mayor's eyes darken is startling, menacing even. He's usually so jovial, so approachable, so cultured. But right now it looks like Mayor Queen would be as likely to punch him out as to host a gala and Dwight's starting to wonder if there isn't a whole lot more to this mayor than meets the eye.

"You have speculation and assumptions," the mayor corrects, an unmistakable threat in his voice. "You don't know a damned thing about Felicity Smoak and you're going to _apologize_ or I'm going to take you to court for libel and make sure you never work in this town again. Are we clear?"

His tone sounds like he's warning of something a whole lot more serious than a lawsuit and Dwight could not be more surprised by this entire conversation if he tried. Wow, does that girl have the mayor eating out of the palm of her hand or what?

"I don't get it," Dwight sputters, blinking back at the mayor. "She's got your company. She's got all the money that used to be yours. She left you. It's real clear to me what's going on. Why in the hell are you going to bat for her?"

The mayor's jaw clenches and his nostrils actually flare, which is something Dwight had previously thought was only a saying and not a thing that actually happened. Apparently he was wrong. Again. That's becoming a pattern today and he doesn't like it one bit.

One thing is clear - they mayor's _pissed_ … and Dwight's the one who made it that way.

"Because, _Dwight_ ," he finally grits out, his thumb and forefinger rubbing against each other like Dwight's do sometimes when he thinks about money, "she's worth going to bat for. Which is clearly not something you're capable of understanding. I don't owe you any explanations. What you owe _me_ is your press pass. What you owe _her_ is an apology. I want the first right now and the second by morning or I will make your life so difficult you'll wish you'd never learned to write in the first place."

Yeah, Dwight's pissed, but he's also fully aware that he can't go up against the mayor and win. Not right now, anyhow. The man's _powerful_ , popular and obviously has the upper hand… one that's reaching out expectantly, waiting for his press pass. His _press pass_ , the little card that gives him access and clout and damn but he doesn't want to give that up.

Mayor Queen clearly isn't giving him a choice, though, and Dwight's well aware that the mayor could make this considerably more difficult on him if he chose to. He feels a little betrayed, honestly, as he digs his beloved pass out of his pocket and slaps it into the mayor's hand. He'd expected some kind of solidarity, loyalty even. They're not that different, after all, and he really hadn't said anything uncharitable about _him_.

"I didn't even put anything in there about the million dollars," Dwight huffs.

This, as it turns out, was a mistake. The mayor's entire body jolts and his eyes turn wary as he searches Dwight's face for more information than he'd really planned to give.

"What million dollars?" the mayor asks cautiously, his entire frame betraying how very on-edge he is.

"Doesn't matter now," Dwight huffs, but the look on the mayor's face doesn't change at all, so after a moment he decides to share a little more. Maybe the mayor will see sense if he realizes how very reserved he really was in his article. "After the Undertaking. You transferred a whole bunch of zeroes into her account." He starts to feel a little more indignant of his treatment as what he's saying rolls around his head. "And, you know, a lot of people would have led with that for a story because it could look very bad for you if put in a certain light."

Hm… maybe insinuating that the mayor had hired his ex-fiance for sexual favors wasn't the best plan ever, judging by the completely irate look on the man's face. Shit, but is he ever duped by this girl. Dwight almost feels bad for him, but there's not really any room for him to dedicate feeling bad toward anyone but himself at the moment.

"You have five seconds to get out of here before you have a lot bigger problems than a lawsuit and a revoked press pass," the mayor growls at him.

He sounds dark, dangerous, like another person entirely, and Dwight completely believes him. He's out of his chair in an instant and hurries out the door, a complicated mixture of confusion, fear and anger.

Prissy's at her desk with an entirely too cheery face and Dwight sort of wishes he could put this all back on her somehow when she calls out "have a great day" as he storms out the door.

That day he thought couldn't be ruined? It completely has been. But Dwight's used to not being given his due. He's been in worse spots than this, he thinks as he pulls open the door to his Civic with far too much force and climbs in. It's not like this is the only story on his radar. He's got other things. Some of them are every bit as lucrative. Some of them might even be related - because he's willing to suspect Felicity Smoak of anything at this point. If he can _prove_ everything he said, if he can provide hard evidence that isn't circumstantial… things they'll have to listen to… well Dwight would sorta love to see the mayor eat his words.

He turns the key and starts his car with a sputtering noise that really doesn't say good things about the state of his mid-sized sedan. But all of that's gonna take a back seat for now. He's got another lead he needs to follow, one that leads through some pretty shady people from Star City right back to Moscow.

Dwight's scrappy, at least in his own mind, an intrepid reporter in his very soul. He's gonna get the story and get himself back on track if it kills him. And he's _not_ going to apologize to Felicity Smoak.

No matter what.

She's a gold-digger and he knows it. She doesn't deserve an apology.


	3. Chapter 3

Married people are weird. And, _yes_ this is a strange thought for a newly engaged woman, but that doesn't make it less true. Chelsea's a waitress, has been since she was a teenager, and she's seen it all. From apathetic couples to the super sappy newlyweds to the overwrought moms to the embittered, mid-divorce couples, she sees them daily and she's known this forever. But the couple she'll wind up waiting on tonight… they're a rarity.

"Oh my _God_ ," Sonya gasps, grabbing Michelle's crisp white sleeve as she peeks out the doorway from the kitchen onto the floor. "Who has table 15?"

Chelsea looks up because that's her zone tonight and she hadn't even realized they were sitting someone there yet.

"That's Chels," Michelle says, glancing her way with an affectionate "lucky bitch" added on.

"What? Why?" Chelsea asks grabbing the order for 13 with a hint of hesitation before peeking out the doorway.

She can see 15 clearly from this vantage point and there's a tall man pulling out a chair for one of the most attractive women she's ever seen. That's one hell of a cocktail dress and it fits the blonde like a glove, highlighting some pretty terrific assets that she almost feels bad for eyeing for so long until she realizes if Liesl were here, she'd absolutely be admiring the view too. They're engaged, not dead, looking still happens.

"Who's that?" Chelsea asks.

"Uh, that'd be Mayor Oliver Queen and Felicity Smoak," Sonya tells her like it's obvious.

And… okay, maybe it would be to most people in this city - she's heard the names before - but it's not like Chelsea's been here that long. After the near-miss on Monument Point, she and Liesl had taken a hard look at their plans and she'd moved across country to be with Liesl earlier than they'd originally intended. The money was better in Monument Point, even if TableSalt's tippers are better than Chelsea had feared. It'll take longer to raise enough for Liesl to open her own yoga studio than they'd wanted, but they're together. That matters more.

"I may need to go see if 21 needs anything…" Michelle hums, peeking over Chelsea's shoulder. "Just to be nearby. God, he's so hot it's stupid."

Sonya hums in agreement. "It's good to see them out together again, though. After everything."

"God their _wedding_ ," Michelle bemoans, sighing dramatically.

This is about when Chelsea decides she's heard enough. She has a job to do, after all. It's also when, later, she'll wish she'd gossiped just a bit more.

Plates in hand for 13, she heads out onto the floor and delivers the meals with the subtlety of a long-practiced high-end server who knows how to meet her guests' needs without intruding. The three businessmen barely notice her, which is a win on several levels as one of them has very grabby hands, and they ask nothing of her as she sets their dishes in front of them. That's probably why she hears Felicity Smoak talking nearby. It's not especially loud, but she _is_ the only woman in the immediate vicinity and her voice stands out because of it.

"...bigger things to worry about than Dwight Sorenson. And, frankly, he's got bigger things to worry about than me. His ex-wives' lawyers might have been recently informed about some income he was hiding on the sly. You'd think given all his digging he'd have realized it was an enormously bad idea to mess with me, but apparently he's even less bright than it seemed. Boom. That's game, set and match."

She's draping her napkin across her lap, a self-satisfied little smile on her face. She doesn't even glance her companion's direction, but he - very obviously - only has eyes for her. There's pride written all over his face and affection in his gaze, but what strikes Chelsea the most is the quiet sense of longing that she barely catches a glimpse of.

Even without kitchen gossip, there'd have been no doubt at all in her mind that this man is wildly in love with the woman at his side. But she really can't figure out the near-pining she sees on the mayor's face. There's a story she's missing there and it only makes her more interested when the woman turns toward him and the look falls away in an instant.

Whatever he's feeling, he's trying to hide it from her and she's trying her damnedest to pretend she doesn't know. And _man_ if that doesn't make Chelsea more curious than she should be.

"Good evening," she says, stepping up with a smile. "Welcome to TableSalt. I'm Chelsea. I'll be your server tonight. Would you care to see the wine list?"

"God, yes," the blonde says. "Something needs to take the edge off this awkwardness."

"Really?" the mayor asks, all hesitance and more than a little hurt. Chelsea actually feels a little bad for him. "Is it really that… Are you… Is it that bad for us to be here together?"

"No," she says immediately, looking like she's ready to backtrack wildly. But Chelsea's pretty sure her first reaction was an honest one - she's wildly uncomfortable to be here with him. And… yeah, married people are super weird. "It's not that. That's not what I meant. It's just… I mean, last time we were here…"

He gulps hard and nods back at her, licking his lips as his brow knits. "I remember last time we were here. You don't have to remind me."

"Then you get what I'm saying," she insists. "This isn't... " She pauses, huffs a little in frustration. "This isn't exactly easy for me either, Oliver."

Oh, man, her mayor can apparently go from the sort of guy that can have Michelle and Sonya swooning to looking like a kindergartner who was just told there's no Santa Claus on a dime. The sadness that pours over his chiseled features isn't something he can hide. At all. Though he does try to dial it back and he breaks eye contact with his wife to stare at her hand.

Her jewelry-less hand.

Well… that potentially explains a few things.

"If you don't want to be here…" he starts, clearly about to give her an out because _apparently_ the mayor is a decent guy, which is a lovely change of pace, really.

"No," she counters immediately, putting her hand over his. He jolts at the contact and she pulls her hand away like his skin burned her as soon as she realizes what she's doing. "This isn't… it's not about us. _Me_. I mean me. It's not about me. Or you. Or me and you, actually. Not that that's really… No, what I mean is there's a reason we're here. We agreed this was the best way to…" Her eyes dart up to Chelsea for a moment, as if she's just remembered she's there. "We're here for a reason. A good reason. An important, business-related reason. Just… there also needs to be wine. Red, please. The house wine is fine."

Yeah, this isn't awkward at all. But Chelsea's seen a lot worse over the years and she knows how to take it in stride.

"Of course," she agrees, turning toward the mayor. "And for you, sir?"

But he's not looking at her, doesn't even glance her way. His eyes are fixed on his companion as if he's trying to decide something. She fidgets with her napkin under his gaze and Chelsea can practically _see_ the moment he settles on a choice. Something clears in his eyes and he simultaneously looks more open and vulnerable all at once.

"Forget the table red," he says, still watching his apparently-estranged wife. "We'll take a bottle of 1982 Lafite Rothschild, please."

The blonde utterly gasps, looks up at him with incredulous, wide blue eyes. Her jaw is slack and Chelsea's hard-pressed to describe the look on her face. Is it hurt? Is it scared? Is it disbelief? It's kind of all of those things at once and, as interesting as these two are, Chelsea kinda wants to finish up their drink order and go see what table 16 might need because it's not like they're her only guests tonight.

"What are you doing?" Felicity asks, sounding like she might be choking on the words.

There's a very long moment where he says nothing and it does absolutely nothing for his wife's anxiety level. Her breathing speeds up - something her strikingly-gorgeous and really, _really_ tight dress does absolutely nothing to hide. But, even though Chelsea finds herself a bit distracted by that fact, the mayor's eyes never leave his wife's face and it's all sort of stupidly romantic even if they're obviously a giant, tragic mess.

"I don't have any interest in a table red, Felicity," he says finally. "I refuse to settle."

Yeah. There's absolutely no one involved in this conversation that thinks what he's saying has anything to do at all with wine.

But Felicity is stunned silent and it's Chelsea's opportunity to escape and she _knows_ it. So she excuses herself to grab them the absurdly expensive bottle of wine that she's sure will net her a much larger tip than the table red.

It's a couple of minutes before she gets back to them. The cooks messed up the dessert on 12 and the guy who looks like her grandfather on 17 is possibly the pickiest man this side of the Mississippi - her grandfather is on the other side and, for Chelsea's money, he still wins - sending back his steak three times before he's satisfied with the cut. But when she does get back, the sommelier is just leaving their table and the mayor is sipping his wine while his wife is staring at her glass like it just might bite her.

"It's good wine," he assures her. "You'll love it."

"I'm not doubting that it's good, Oliver," she replies a little too quickly, her voice edging on hysterics. "I'm not doubting that I'd love it. But just because I'd love it doesn't mean I should have it. It doesn't mean it's good for me, even if I've wanted it for actual years. That doesn't make it a smart choice."

The mayor sets his glass down at that and sits back in his chair, watching her a little sadly while she fidgets. God, these two deserve their own primetime show, Chelsea thinks. She'd watch it.

"It's just wine, Felicity," he finally says, his voice gentle like he's trying not to spook her further.

The woman steels herself, looking more composed than since the topic of wine came up in the first place, and wraps her fingers around the crystal stem, lifting the glass.

"There's nothing 'just' about really absurdly excellent red wine," she announces before taking a sip. She does not, however, look in her companion's direction, something that's lost on neither the mayor nor Chelsea. But Chelsea's pretty sure it's a minor victory for the mayor anyhow.

"Have you had a moment to look over the menu?" Chelsea asks in her most pleasant, unobtrusive voice. "Our head chef absolutely outdid himself with today's special. We have a Thai peanut sauce over fresh wild-caught halibut cheeks on a bed of sauteed spinach with a side of jasmine rice. I highly recommend it."

"No. No peanuts," the mayor says, deeply serious all of the sudden.

"Well, you can have it," his wife says as she eyes the menu. "It's not like you have to worry about… you know. Whatever, if you want it, go for it. I'm a big girl and I carry an epipen."

Chelsea is one hundred-percent certain the mayor has one, too. There's not a doubt in her mind.

"I'm not going to eat something that could kill you. I don't care how good it is," he insists.

"You're being ridiculous," she tells him, looking his direction. "Proximity to peanuts isn't going to send me into anaphylactic shock."

"Maybe not," he agrees. "But even though I'm fully aware that I'm not going to be able to kiss you goodnight, I'd much prefer knowing it wouldn't kill you if I did. I don't want to be poisonous to you."

 _Anymore_.

That final word goes unsaid, but man, even Chelsea can hear that word hanging in the air. And, _dear God_ , do these two always talk in metaphors? Stupid, fascinating, fighting married people. Chelsea wishes Liesl were here. No, wait, she wishes she could sell tickets. She's pretty sure she could make a big contribution to their yoga studio fund.

"Why are you doing this?" his wife asks, searching his face for answers that have been plain to see from the instant Chelsea first set eyes on them.

"You know why," he tells her. "Besides, halibut and peanut sauce don't go with the red wine." He takes another sip before looking back up to Chelsea. "I'll have the citrus ginger spiced swordfish, please. Felicity?"

That doesn't actually go with the red wine either, but he's made such a great, quietly impassioned show so far and Chelsea knows enough to keep her mouth shut.

"The salmon with the roasted red pepper sauce, please," Felicity decides, handing the menu back to Chelsea.

"Would you prefer the garlic smashed potatoes or the jasmine rice?" Chelsea asks.

"Um… the rice," the blonde decides. And, bless her, even this looks like a decision she wasn't prepared to make at the moment. If the mayor's plan is to subtly overwhelm his wife until she cracks and just kisses the hell out of him, Chelsea's pretty sure it's going to work his way. Probably. Eventually. It's going to explode one direction or the other anyhow.

"Excellent," Chelsea responds with a smile. "It'll be up shortly. Please let me know if there's anything else I can get for either of you."

She slips off as the duo falls into some kind of quiet, surprisingly easy conversation. It's almost like they switch modes into something else entirely. They're _weird_. And - god damn it - fascinating.

And she's not the only one who thinks so.

The moment Chelsea sets foot in the kitchen, Sonya grabs her arm and tugs her to the side where Michelle's honestly bouncing on the balls of her feet like a toddler who's had too much candy. It's verging on ridiculous.

"Talk!" Michelle orders expectantly.

"Don't you two have _tables_?" Chelsea wonders aloud. Really, they're lucky Donnie called out sick today or he'd be hovering and prodding them back out onto the floor.

"What'd they say?" Sonya urges.

"I'll have the salmon?" Chelsea shrugs. "I'm their waitress. Our conversation is pretty much limited to listing the specials. You know how it is."

Michelle honestly _pouts_ at this, but Sonya's eyes look suspicious because she knows - she _knows_ \- that Chelsea's all about the people watching. She sees a lot more than she says. She always has.

"Well what are they like then?" Sonya ventures. "Together, I mean. Because after that article in People Magazine…"

"Oh man, that picture of them on the beach in Bali? I swooned, Sonya. _Swooned_ ," Michelle advises dramatically, gripping the other woman's sleeve. "There might have been smelling salts involved."

"There were not," Chelsea scoffs as she puts in the mayor and his wife's order along with a note to make sure everything is nut-free.

"Well there could have been," Michelle amends. "The way he looks at her. _God_ … tell me he's still looking at her like that, after everything?"

"If you were out on the floor, you might get to see for yourself," Chelsea laughs shortly.

Both Michelle and Sonya peek toward the doorway again and Chelsea rolls her eyes at them before taking a swig of water from her nearby water bottle.

"You're both ridiculous," she announces, grabbing the appetizer for 14.

"It's just… I need to know it's all real," Michelle sighs. "I know they're just a celebrity couple and I know how the tabloids are, but I just… after the divorce I might be projecting a bit. It's not like I want my husband back - he's scum - but I just need to see that people can come back from hard times, you know? I need to hear it's real, that _they're_ real."

Chelsea pauses at that because she's a sucker for a raw, emotional moment and Michelle is full of them but this is maybe the most honest she's seen. Michelle had already been divorced by the time Chelsea had met her, but she's heard stories. She knows Michelle had been crazy about Dimitri right up until he got busted smuggling weapons into the port and all of his lies had started to come to light, unravelling their relationship with each newly revealed piece of his hidden life. So, if she's somehow pinned all her hope on Oliver Queen and his wife… well, Chelsea can understand that.

"They really _didn't_ say much," Chelsea advises, dropping her voice a bit. "But the way he looks at her? It's real, Michelle. It's absolutely real."

The amount of relief on Michelle's face at that, the way Sonya wraps her arm around her friend in comfort… it's honestly a little sad. Chelsea feels bad for her, but she also doesn't have time to dwell.

"You okay?" she asks.

"Yeah, I'm good," Michelle agrees, even if she looks a little sniffly. "Thanks. Go drop that off before it gets cold."

Chelsea doesn't need to be told twice. She nods, heads back out to the floor and checks on her tables, balancing all their needs. She barely glances at the mayor and his wife. They seem unhurried but strangely focused. More than once she catches the mayor's wife glancing toward table four where three extremely burly Russian men sit in Sonya's section. Chelsea remembers when they came in because Michelle had shuddered and said she thought she remembered one of them as her ex-husband's friend and she was glad she didn't have to wait on him. They won't be good tippers - with as many years in the business as she's had, she can tell that on-sight with uncanny accuracy - so she's glad she doesn't have them either.

But her zone is oddly busy and Chelsea doesn't have time to worry about anyone she's not waiting on. There's not much time for people watching tonight either and that part she _is_ kind of bummed about because there's some prime people-watching tables tonight.

When 15's order is up, she grabs the plates and heads back to the doorway before freezing in her tracks. Michelle's headed back into the kitchen, but Chelsea hisses her name and nods toward the table in question. The other server turns and makes a silly, excited little noise at the sight that greets her.

It's innocuous, really. It could mean anything, but the mayor's leaning over and whispering something in his wife's ear, his hand on the back of her chair. And, unobserved by him, the blonde has shut her eyes like she's savoring his closeness but doesn't want him to know it.

But the real kicker - the moment out of all of this that will sear into even Chelsea's memory - is when he pulls back. Because he doesn't pull back _enough_. He moves just inches away from her and she turns her face toward him and they're suddenly nearly nose-to-nose in a way that Chelsea's almost certain is entirely accidental.

For a long moment, they both seem frozen in time. His eyes search her face while hers go wide. At first she stops breathing entirely, but then there's a huge gulp of air, she recoils and looks down at the tablecloth blinking hard as a flush works its way across her pale cheeks.

"Oh _wow_ ," Michelle breathes out as the mayor's wife takes a swig of her wine that would probably make their sommelier cry because one does not _chug_ good wine. But, Chelsea can't really blame her. She doesn't know what's going on with these two, but the way the mayor looks at her is loaded, overwhelming, and a little liquid fortitude might be precisely what she needs.

"How's that for real?" Chelsea asks with a wink. She doesn't wait for an answer before heading over to serve their dinners.

"...could just go over. I mean you _are_ the mayor," the blonde is muttering into her wine glass when Chelsea walks up. And that's interesting because her eyes dart back to the Russians at table four. It's the first thing that's made her a bit wary of this mayor of theirs because the vibe those guys give off is sleezy. She doesn't trust them a bit.

"Later," the mayor replies with a tight smile as he realizes Chelsea's in ear-shot. "For now, let's just enjoy our dinner."

"I hope you do," Chelsea smiles pleasantly as she sets their plates. "Is there anything else I can get for either of you?"

"Thank you, no," the mayor tells her. "This looks great."

"Enjoy," Chelsea nods at each of them before heading over to see why 13 is staring her direction.

Things don't get slower throughout the evening. Michelle winds up serving a rehearsal dinner for someone's wedding - complete with a four-string quartet because some people just bleed money - leaving her and Sonya to pick up the slack a bit. That's okay, though, because the night promises to net all of them some impressive tips if this keeps up and they all need it. Nearly half an hour later, when Chelsea can finally take a deep breath again, most of her tables have turned over, but not the mayor and his wife. They're both done with their dinners, but they've settled into conversation that looks like it alternates between easy and awkward.

Honestly, they intrigue the hell out of Chelsea. She's not much for celebrity gossip, but seeing these two up close is another thing entirely and she really wants to know their story.

"Have either one of you left room for one of our famous port-infused double-chocolate brownies with handmade ice cream? Maybe one to _share_?" Chelsea asks slyly as she picks up their dinner plates.

If she's not mistaken - and she's not - the mayor's lips twitch in mild amusement.

"Oh that's… no, thank you," his wife replies flustered.

"You sure?" the mayor asks her.

"Maybe just some coffee?" she asks.

"Sure. Coming right up," Chelsea nods. "And for you, Mayor Queen?"

"I'll have the same," he replies.

"Get the dessert if you want the dessert, Oliver," his wife tells him.

"It's a lot less appealing if you don't want any," he replies.

She huffs, rolls her eyes and chews her lip for a moment as she watches him.

"Well… if you get it maybe I'll steal a bite of yours," she suggests. The amount of surprise in his eyes is absolutely monumental. "If that's okay, of course."

"Felicity, anything I have is already yours. Always. You know that," he replies.

He's pushed it too far. That's obvious from the warning look on his wife's face, but it still feels like a win for the mayor in Chelsea's book as she flashes them both a smile and heads off the grab their dessert and coffees.

Ultimately, Chelsea's pretty sure that the mayor's wife eats the bulk of their dessert. Every time she looks over at their table, the blonde's eyes are shut as she hums in contentment, savoring a bite of the incredibly rich and absolutely delicious dessert. It doesn't bother the mayor in the least, though, as he seems more than content to simply watch the look of utter bliss on his companion's face as she relishes the forkfuls of chocolate euphoria.

Chelsea's headed over with another French Press of coffee for the duo just as the mayor's wife finishes the last forkful, when she catches the mayor's quiet voice.

"Dance with me."

His wife almost drops the fork.

"What?" she asks.

"Dance with me," he requests again, slightly louder but sounding no less uncertain.

"There's… no one's dancing, Oliver," she protests.

"So we'll be trendsetters," he shrugs.

"You don't dance," she points out, sounding a little desperate for him to agree with her point.

"If you haven't figured out by now that I'll make exceptions to any rule for you, I'm doing something wrong," he counters.

She's so very guarded, so wary of him, that Chelsea feels bad for the guy. Hell, she kinda feels bad for both of them. When did she start rooting for these two? Since when is that a thing she even does?

"It's just a dance, Felicity," he tells her a little softer.

"Like it was 'just' until we found Walter?" she asks, leaving the mayor blinking at her in surprise. "Anything that's 'just' with us never stays that way, Oliver."

"Maybe… maybe there's a reason for that," he ventures uncertainly.

"Oliver…" she manages in a gritty, warning tone.

"Felicity, please?" he asks.

For a long moment, Chelsea honestly isn't sure which way the woman is going to go. She's visibly torn and whatever it is that ultimately makes up her mind, Chelsea will never know because what she says doesn't make a lick of sense to the server.

"Well… it might give us a chance to get that one thing done we were here for," she reasons. "Right?"

"Sure," the mayor agrees readily, pushing back his chair and standing to offer his hand to his companion.

Chelsea's pretty sure he'd take any reason at all for her agreement. He doesn't give a damn why she's willing to dance with him, so long as she is.

There's plenty of room for dancing. They'd had to push quite a few tables together for the rehearsal dinner leaving a gaping spot in the middle of the floor, which is precisely where the mayor leads his wife. Anxiety rolls off of them, though they both feign confidence well enough that someone who hadn't been looking for it might well have missed the nerves that clearly have the pair on edge. For the mayor, though… for him, if Chelsea's not mistaken, there's a fair bit of excitement, too. But he conceals that even better than he hides the tension.

Plenty of attention shifts to them as the mayor takes his wife in his arms and they start to dance. It's nothing showy, no formal steps or insane dips or anything like that. It's more swaying than anything else. But, the way his eyes slip shut when his wife can't see his face and his whole body relaxes as he holds onto her… it just looks like peace.

A few couples follow their lead - as the mayor had predicted - but Chelsea's pretty sure that most of the room keeps their eyes on Mayor Queen and his wife. She knows hers sure are. And from the little squeal behind her she's pretty sure Michelle's are, too, and damn it why is she sharing that sense of excitement for them? This is not how she operates.

The otherwise-coordinated pair nearly collides with one of the men at table four when he gets up and there's a moment where the mayor's wife touches the man's elbow. Chelsea could have sworn she'd seen something in the woman's hand, but she blinks and it's gone so she figures it was just her mind playing tricks on her.

Besides, she's got other things to worry about. It's not like _everyone_ ' _s_ dancing. She hurries off, grabs a drink order from 17 and drops off a dessert at 13. It's a solid ten minutes before she gets a chance to stop and take a breath, but when she does, she immediately catches sight of them again. They've inched closer together and it looks like she's resisting the urge to rest her cheek against his chest while his thumb strokes along the base of her spine.

They're so _close_ … right up until the distance between them seems insurmountable. The mayor's wife swallows heavily, stepping back from him. She's almost shaking with tension and the look of calm that the mayor had been radiating just minutes before is clearly a distant memory now.

"I can't do this."

Her voice is quiet, especially in the din of the restaurant with the quartet playing, but Chelsea hears it anyhow.

"Oliver, I can't let myself be pulled back in," she continues, wrapping her arms around her own midsection and keeping an empty space between them.

"I'm not pulling," he tells her quickly, which is met with a disbelieving stare. "I'm _not_. Your choices are yours and… I respect that. I can't even say they were wrong to leave. It was my fault. I know that."

And it's interesting because for a moment Chelsea thinks the woman is about to argue that point. She surely looks like it bothers her that he's taking so much blame onto himself.

"Can we please not rehash this all over again?" she asks a little desperately.

"This is different," he tells her. "This isn't about you leaving. This is about me _staying_ , about me telling you that… that whatever you want from me, I'm right here. And I will never, ever stop being in love with you, Felicity."

Before he even finishes speaking, Chelsea knows it's too much. She's pretty sure the mayor knew it too because he's not surprised in the least when his wife steps back a couple more feet, shaking her head.

"I'm gonna go," she announces, sniffling and blinking rapidly.

"Okay," the mayor agrees.

"I might not be around for a few days," she adds.

"If that's what you need," he says, though it clearly pains him.

"Just like that?" she asks. "You're not going to… to tell me you need me?"

"I always need you, Felicity," he says with a short humorless laugh. "But what you need matters more and right now that's space. That's okay."

She clearly doesn't know what to say to that. It's a hell of a statement and Chelsea has no doubt whatsoever that he means it. But it's big and it's weighty and it's more than enough to make the blonde woman bolt. She does smile at him first though, an anxiety-laden twist of her lips.

"Thank you for the dance, Oliver," she forces out in a near-whisper.

"Always," he returns.

He watches her as she collects her purse and leaves. He doesn't move at all until she's out the door and the vallet's brought her car around. Then… then he sighs, a downtrodden look taking over his face as he stuffs his hands in his pockets and makes his way back to the table.

Chelsea's itching to say something to him. She never does this, never inserts herself in other people's lives. She watches, sure, that part's entertaining as hell. She loves trying to work out the details. But this… this time it just gets to her for some reason. Maybe it's that she heard their wedding was just a few months ago and she's only a few months away from her own. She's not sure. But for whatever reason, she's inclined to break her own personal rule and butt in… just this once.

"Good call on the wine," she advises the mayor.

He looks up from his seat, obviously surprised to see her there and even more surprised to hear her weighing in.

" _You aren't alone in that, buddy_ ," she thinks to herself.

"Think so?" he asks, sounding a touch uncertain.

"Sure," Chelsea tells him. "You were clear without being pushy. Being in this business, I see a lot, but I've got to tell you I rarely see _that_."

"She still left," he notes.

"You knew she would, though," Chelsea points out. "The important thing is that you let her know she can come _back_. On her terms. Whenever she's ready."

"Yeah," he echoes quietly.

"Want to know what I think, Mr. Mayor?" she ventures, picking up the check, the mayor's credit card and the cash left by his companion.

"We weren't already talking about that?" he asks, looking a little amused.

"Okay, well, that's _fair_. But do you want to know what else I think?" she asks.

"Sure, let's hear it," he replies.

"I think you two are gonna be okay," Chelsea says, feeling every bit of what she's saying as she says it. "I think it's obvious you two both love each other and I can't pretend to have any idea of what you're going through, but giving her space to deal while letting her know it's okay that she takes her time? That's the kind of thing that helps relationships survive." The mayor smiles broadly up at her and Chelsea's awfully glad she opened her mouth for once.

"Your wife's a lucky woman, Mr. Mayor."

And just like that the hopeful, happy look on his face falls away.

"Thank you, Chelsea," he says, his tone reserved and laced with a pain she can't quite understand. "I appreciate that."

"Of course," Chelsea replies, puzzling over his reaction. "I'll just go take care of the check for you."

He nods as she walks off and Chelsea only darts a glance back at him as she cashes out his table. He's morose, shoulders sagging, eyes lingering on his companion's empty seat. For the life of her, Chelsea can't quite figure out what happened.

Married people are weird, she decides. That's all there is to it.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N - Please note possible trigger warning for darker themes of Bratva related sex trade activities and forced prostitution. Everything happens off-screen and nothing to the characters to any established characters. (P.S. Sorry this has taken so long! It will be done before the premiere.)

* * *

Katya knows more about the seedier side of politics and power than any 21-year-old should. She knows the sort of men drawn to that world. The hungry sort, the lustful kind, the self-interested and self-absorbed who like their egos - and other things - stroked with great regularity. They're all the same. Katya learned this the hard way.

As a little girl, Katya had been kept somewhat shielded from all of this. Her mother had hushed questions and shooed her out of sight whenever her father's men had come around. But her childhood ended suddenly with growing pains that nearly broke her when her father, a _derzhatel obschaka_ for the Yekaterinburg arm of the Bratva, had lost a turf war and his life in a skirmish with the Uralmash gang. Without her father's protection, two of Katya's three older brothers bled out in the streets before her father's body had even cooled. And Katya… well, Katya had run. She'd run to Moscow, to the heart of the Bratva and the mercy of the Pakhan.

And she'd found it… sort of.

With all of her immediate family dead or missing - she doesn't kid herself, just because they didn't find her oldest brother's body doesn't mean he's alive - she'd been sent to her cousin Dimitri in America. But Dimitri had not been half the man her father was and his concern with her had mostly been how she could benefit him.

The Brotherhood has very limited uses for women and everyone has to earn their keep.

Never has this been more true for Katya than since her cousin's arrest last year. These days, she is lucky she hasn't been put to work in a brothel and she knows it. Whether that's due to some lingering sense of respect for her father or the striking looks she'd inherited from her mother, Katya doesn't know. But, more often than not, she's used to smooth over deals between her local _Avtoritet_ and whatever other mid-level crime boss he's trying to make in-roads with at the moment.

It's a miserable life that leaves her flat on her back with sweaty men easily twice her age slaking their lust with her body more often than not, but Katya is smart. She knows how the Bratva works, knows she needs their protection and that serving as a liaison to the powerful gives her more opportunity to get _out_ of her current situation than a brothel ever could. So, she plays along, coos her appreciation and flatters their egos in the hope that one of these men will choose her, take her under their protection as a mistress.

It's the best a fatherless daughter of the Bratva might hope for.

"This is a nice dress," Dima tells her, dropping his cigarette and grinding it into the pavement with his heel before stepping away from his car to circle her. "Very nice. I like."

His hand trails across her back as he talks, his eyes roaming over her and soaking in the details. She's used to this by now. The wave of shame and disgust at being treated as though she's nothing more than a bargaining chip still hits her, but it isn't as overwhelming as it was those first few months. Katya isn't sure if that's a good thing or not.

"I aim to please," she replies with a thin, disingenuous smile.

"That is what they all tell me," Dima smiles, his gold tooth shining brightly in the streetlight. "We will leave in just a moment. My men are finishing something up inside the building."

No sooner than he speaks, the heavy metal doors to the wharfside warehouse bang open and two of Dima's men drag someone out by the arms. Katya's seen enough dead bodies to be fully aware that this man's life is over. She doesn't even need to be close enough to see the bullet hole in his head to know that. It's all in how his body hangs, how the blood trails behind him.

"What did he know?" Dima asks as the other two men toss the body into the trunk of the car.

"Very little," replies Nikita, the larger of the two and Dima's right-hand man. "He was full of blame and excuses, but little information. And believe me, Sorenson would have talked. Barely had to bend his pinky back before he squealed like a pig. He would have kept digging, though."

" _Free press_ ," Dima sneers distastefully. "Free press and weak men. I hate America."

Katya's not sure she disagrees, though she's certain her reasons aren't the same as Dima's. But it's not like her opinion matters at the moment, so she follows Dima into the car when he snaps his fingers and puts the body in the trunk out of her mind.

"This is an important introduction, Katya," Dima tells her as his henchmen climb into the front seats and start the car. "An easy one, no doubt, but important. Do you understand?"

"They are all important," Katya replies, ignoring the way Dima's hand slides up her thigh as the eyes of his men focused on her in the rearview mirror. "I serve the Brotherhood."

"You serve _me_ ," Dima tells her in a low voice, his intent clear as his fingers drag along the edge of her panties.

"Perhaps later," she forces herself to say, smiling coyly. "First I have to secure a business relationship for you, yes?"

He huffs, but withdraws his hand, leaning back against the seat. There's clear annoyance on his face at being put off, but he also seems to be grudgingly accepting of her point. Dima might be a big fish in Star City's arm of the Bratva, but he's nothing if you go beyond the city limits. He's aiming to change that and it's obvious that he's using her at every opportunity to further his connections.

What she could do to further her position if she had the chance to whisper Dima's secrets into the Pakhan's ear… it's almost enough to make her wistful for Moscow.

Almost.

The drive isn't a long one, for which Katya is grateful. Anticipation only makes these things worse and she'd just as soon fast forward her evening to the point where she's scrubbing off the evidence of her night in a scalding shower before falling into bed alone.

"Say nothing until I grant you permission," Dima reminds her, pulling her back into the present as the car rolls to a stop outside a modest townhouse on the edge of the bad side of town.

It's a needless reminder. Katya knows well how this works by now, but even if she hadn't she has a keen enough sense of self-preservation to observe before engaging. It's part of the reason she's stayed alive so long; it's an even bigger part of why she knows one day she'll be successful and work her way out of this life. But she nods at Dima anyhow, mostly because he likes to know he's being deferred to, and slides out of the car after him, careful to keep the hem of her dress in place as she goes. Dima and his men are trouble enough without getting a free show and if Katya's going to be a whore, she'd much prefer to be an expensive one.

"Katya," Dima says, snagging her wrist and tugging her closer, his voice dropping to a level his men cannot hear. "This is most important. Our operation here is at risk. The police force… the masks… we are at war on all fronts and we need this ally to stay alive. Do not fail me."

There's a graveness to his voice that she's not used to. Dima is always casually in control, always cavalier about things like drugs and sex and murder, but this… this connection has him anxious. That alone is enough to pique Katya's interest, but it also serves as her first clue that tonight might go a little differently than usual.

"I don't fail," she tells him decisively. "It's how I've survived."

"It's how we'll all survive," he grumbles in an uncharacteristically uneasy tone, casting a wary glance toward the car. "Come on."

The pathway to the townhouse is short, but well-kept, all of the landscaping up and down the street is identical, a clear sign that none of the inhabitants take care of the yards themselves. It's a strange part of town, a tiny niche at the confluence of the wharf, the Glades and the business district, the edge of respectability, skirting the line between decent and disgraceful. Katya likes it. She can relate.

Dima rings the bell as Katya stands a foot or so behind him and they wait. She's done her homework. She always does. She's read news articles and seen press conferences and gossip columns. But still, even with hours of prep work behind her, she's more than a little stunned at precisely how good looking the mayor is when he opens the door. It doesn't make her actually _want_ to follow through with this job any more than before, but she has to admit it'll be nice to have a break from flabby old men for a change.

He's new to politics, this mayor. That's no surprise, but he _has_ been Bratva for some time, so it throws her a little how poorly he disguises his thoughts. He goes from curious to stunned to wary as he takes in Dima standing on his front stoop. He's aware of her too, but in a cursory way, like a fighter skimming for threats instead of a man looking with interest. That, too, is refreshing.

She wasn't entirely aware of how exhausted she was at being seen as a piece of flesh until someone looked at her differently.

"Mister Mayor, the Pakhan sends his regards," Dima greets toothily, with a little tilt of his head that shows deference Katya _knows_ he doesn't feel.

If anything, the mayor looks annoyed at their presence, but he holds the door open wider as his eyes skim up and down the street.

"Здравствуйте," he greets in surprisingly good Russian. "Come in. Как у Вас дела, Dima?"

"Thank you," Dima replies, as if the mayor had options in the matter. It would not do for a known crime lord and his top whore to be caught standing on the mayor's doorstep. "We are grateful for your welcome."

"How about you return the favor by having your men do a few laps around the block while you're here?" the mayor requests with a heavy look.

He's clever, this mayor, Katya decides. Perhaps not in the traditional sense, the media has a near non-stop loop of pundits questioning his lack of education, but in a way that means he's well aware of what's required for self-preservation. In the more important way, in Katya's opinion. She doesn't know all of what he went through, his story in the Bratva's brotherhood, but regardless of his path, she sees a great deal of the lessons she's learned these past few years reflected back in his eyes.

"Perhaps just once or twice," Dima agrees, pulling back a curtain and making a gesture toward his men, who soon after pull out of the drive.

"I'm surprised to see you," the mayor admits. "As you can see, I'm not exactly set up to entertain company."

This is very true. His townhouse is incredibly spartan. If she hadn't known better, she'd have assumed he'd just moved in. But he hasn't. She knows that. He moved in months ago, after his fiance left him. All the same, this place is clearly little more than a residence on paper and a place to sleep. It's a far cry from a home. It reeks of loneliness, of a listless man without roots. She wonders if he had them before, if he still thinks of his loft where he'd lived with his ex as home, or if he's never had one at all.

"I will be brief," Dima assures him, cutting through Katya's thoughts. "The Pakhan and the Brotherhood would like to extend our most sincere congratulations on your position as mayor. As a man of our ranks, we could not be happier with your appointment and hope that you know you may call on us as friends and brothers if ever you are in need of our aid."

The lines on the mayor's handsome face tighten, his whole frame coiled and defensive. There's no question he's reading between the lines. Dima's greeting might be genial enough, but there's so much more to it than that. The Bratva does nothing without the expectation of repayment.

"I had been under the impression you were busy back in Kiev," he replies.

"Times change," Dima replies with a shrug. "We move on, move _up_. You know this. You live it, мэр господин."

"And what brought you to my city?" the mayor questions. It doesn't escape Katya that they have yet to move more than a few feet away from the door. This meeting is already going more stiffly than Dima would have liked. He will rely on her tactics all the more for it.

"Please, Oliver… _our_ city," Dima corrects with a joviality that is most certainly insincere. " _Our_ city. For the Bratva shares amongst the brothers, does it not?"

Mayor Queen is absolutely no more at ease with Dima's words. A Bratva captain, a politician of any means ought to be more welcoming of the brotherhood's hand reached out in friendship. Katya had expected, if not outright happiness at the alliance, at least a grateful sense of respect.

He is a very strange politician, she decides, and an even stranger Bratva captain.

"Nothing for you to worry on, my friend," Dima assures flippantly. "This is not the time for talk of deals. This is a moment of greeting and introductions. Might I present my associate, Ms. Katya Mikhailova?"

He looks at her then as if he's really seeing her for the first time and Katya finds herself standing up a bit straighter under his scrutiny. There's a pinched line to his brow and a flash of recognition in his eyes that surprises her.

"Leonid's daughter?" he asks after a second, striking her greatly by surprise.

"да," she confirms, uneasily and unaccustomed to being thrown.

"I heard what happened," he says, looking more at ease than he has since the moment he opened the door. "I'm sorry for your loss. Your father was a good man."

"We are none of us 'good men,' Mister Mayor," she corrects him. "This world does not allow it. But we can take comfort in our alliances, I think, as it is them that enable our survival and make the world more enjoyable. Do they not?"

He's clearly puzzled, reworking whatever assumptions he'd made about her, but Dima laughs and claps him on the shoulder, jolting him.

"She has a head on her shoulders," Dima confides. "Is sometimes trouble, but I think this is something you appreciate more than most, yes?"

"What-" the mayor starts, looking just as lost as ever, but Dima cuts him off.

"I shall leave you to become better acquainted," he announces, shaking the confused politician's hand before turning for the door. "I'll be in touch soon, капитан."

Dima moves faster than the mayor can untangle his tongue and the local Bratva head is out the door before he can question him further. So, instead, Mayor Queen turns to her with what she has to grudgingly call an endearingly lost look.

"Why are you here?" he asks slowly.

"For you, of course," she tells him, cocking her head to the side and taking a bold step forward and resting one hand on his chest.

He freezes. He completely _freezes_ , eyes wide and mouth slightly parted. There's no doubt he's utterly thrown by the declaration and she can practically see him connect the dots in his head to create a clearer picture of why, precisely, she's standing in his foyer in a dress that's just-this-side of appropriate. It's silly. He's a Bratva man. He ought to have known better. He can't be unaware of how these things work.

"I… uh… _what_?" he asks, sounding like he's nearly choking on his tongue.

"My company is a gift from Dima and the local brotherhood," she informs him more clearly, because it's becoming increasingly evident she's going to need to spell this out for him.

"That's not- I mean… I'm not… That's-" he can't finish a thought, but he laughs in a way that sounds almost nervous and pulls her hand away from his chest before stepping back a solid three feet and gulping heavily. "Thank you, but I'm… No. Just, no thank you."

"I'm discreet, clean and extremely flexible," she tells him with a half shrug that's almost demure, but not quite. "And I can promise you would enjoy yourself very, _very_ much."

"That's… I'm…" he's back to not finishing sentences again and he's _blushing_ , which is sort of ridiculous given some of the older information she's seen about his life on the internet. "I'm not doubting your… skills."

"Do you not find me attractive then?" she asks, as confused as he had been earlier.. It would be a first for her, but she supposes it's possible. Maybe she should have gone blonde, as his taste seems to veer that way lately, given his ex.

"No, you're… a lovely girl," he assures her, holding his hands up in an almost defensive gesture, which is _ridiculous_ given that she's a scantily dressed whore who can't even give her services away at the moment and he's probably the most muscular politician she's ever seen.

"Then what is the problem?" she asks. "It is not as though you are the one faithful politician in the history of politics, as you are not attached to anyone. I am here and freely offering myself to you with no strings attached. You admit I am attractive. You must be lonely, in want of a woman, all men are. I don't understand."

The look on his face shifts instantly to something sympathetic and Katya is _confused_ because men do not look at her like this. They do not see her as a person at all, but if they did they would surely not look upon her with anything like empathy or caring.

"You aren't freely offering yourself. _You_ aren't offering yourself at all. Dima is," he points out correctly. "And even if you were… I'm not lonely. And, while I might not be attached, I _am_ faithful to someone and you aren't her."

"I don't understand," she sputters. And she doesn't. Men - _especially_ men in power, men of politics, men of the brotherhood - crave a way to display that power at every turn. Their egos drive them as much as their libidos and Katya most definitely sates both thirsts. But this man, this mayor who is also Bratva… he would deny her. It contradicts everything she knows, about men, about life, about power, and it leaves her reeling for an explanation that makes sense.

"Yeah. I know," he agrees, but he doesn't seem inclined to explain further. "Why don't I just call Dima and-"

" _No_ ," she nearly shouts in a sudden panic, stopping his motion short as he reaches for the phone in his pocket. "No, you can't. Please, Mister Mayor, _Oliver_ , I beg of you. Allow me to stay, just a little while. An hour or so. Then I can leave and we can allow him to believe you are satisfied. _Please_."

The idea of what Dima might do if she fails, _oh_ it sends a shiver of trepidation up her spine and leaves her wrapping her arms around herself like they might protect her from the world around her. It's a childish move, one she learned years ago to be useless, but the instinct is still there.

"You're scared of him," the mayor notes with a small measure of surprise.

"This is so important to him, this alliance with you," she informs him, gulping around the lump that's formed in her throat. "His business, it is suffering. There are shipments being interrupted by the men in masks. He means to expand his operation, bring in more women, weapons, drugs, gambling and fight clubs. There is no option for this right now, not as things are. He needs your loyalty to make it happen and if he does not get it… I do not know what will become of me."

"You want to be free of him? Free of the Bratva?" the mayor asks curiously, grabbing a zip-up hoodie from the back of the only chair in the room and handing it to her. She takes it from him tentatively. It feels like the first step, a movement toward trusting him, and she doesn't know why but that scares her nearly as much as Dima does. But she is cold and she could use some comfort, so she gingerly takes the fabric from his outstretched hand and drapes it over her shoulders with a murmur of thanks.

"I was in university when my father was murdered. By the time I got word, the youngest of my brothers had already followed him to the grave and the middle one was gunned down an hour later. I won't speak of what happened to my mother and we never found my eldest brother's body," she informs him.

He winces in sympathy, a grim line to his lips as he shakes his head. "The Uralmash Gang was looking to make a statement."

"They would have killed me, too. At best," Katya informs him. "So I went to the heart of the Bratva to beg protection. But, like most Bratva daughters, I had little to offer but myself. And so I did, because I am a survivor. But do I wish to be a whore? One who cannot pick her own clients even? No. There are nights I wish I had ended things in my dorm room at university. At least that would have been on my own terms."

He does not make a judgement on her statement, nodding in understanding without offering platitudes about how much she has to live for, and for that alone she likes him a little better. He looks at her with the eyes of someone who understands where she's been. Undoubtedly, his path has not been the same as hers, but she wonders if maybe they don't run adjacent to each other in some ways. There's a haunted edge to his gaze that she recognizes from when she looks in the mirror.

"What if you had a way out?" he asks. "A way to a life away from Dima and the Bratva."

The laugh she chokes on is pained and weak. "There is no away from Bratva," she tells him. "There is only this. And, if I am lucky, someone who is not a monster will take an interest in me and keep me for his own."

She would not hate if it were him, she realizes, though she knows without a doubt it will not be.

"That's not necessarily true," he tells her. A sliver of hope leaks through the cracks in her splintered soul and she momentarily hates both him and herself for allowing that to happen. Hope has not had a place in her life since that day in Russia when her world ended overnight.

"It is," she counters. "You may think you have escaped it, but even you - a man of means and wealth - even you are beholden to the Pakhan."

"The Pakhan rules Russia," the mayor tells her. "He cannot have my city."

"You will refuse Dima?" she asks, the panic lacing through her voice again.

"I'm going to do more than refuse him," the mayor confides. "And I want you to help me."

" _Me_?" The laugh she lets out verges on the hysterical. "Боже мой, you will have the death of both of us."

"No," he disagrees, looking so confident that she almost believes him. "You and I are survivors, Katya. And if you help me, tell me what you know about Dima's operation and the people at the top here in Star City, we can do more than just survive."

There is no amount of research, she realizes suddenly, that could have possibly prepared her for Mayor Oliver Queen.

"Help me with this and I will make sure you are safe, out of his reach," he vows. "You never have to sleep with someone you don't want to ever again. And I will personally make sure that when this is all over there's a fully paid spot for you at Starling City University."

It is entirely too good to be true. It's everything Katya's wanted but never thought she could have. Not after Yekaterinburg. But now… now this charismatic, powerful man who told her _no_ has her wondering if maybe it isn't possible after all.

"How?" she asks, not even registering that she's crying until a tear falls onto her hand. "How will you do this? How can you possibly hold Dima accountable? Save all of the girls he is bringing into this city who have situations far worse than mine?"

For a moment, she's not certain he's going to answer. He bites his lower lip, drawing it into his mouth and worrying the skin for a second as he thinks, appraises her, calculates precisely how much he can really tell her, she thinks.

"Because I can get in touch with the masks," he says finally. "And they want this city cleaned up as much as I do."

His answer surges through her like a bolt of joyful hope. God, she had almost forgotten what that felt like, and she finds herself nodding before she even realizes she's doing it.

It is a risk. It is a _huge_ risk. She has not trusted a man since her father died, not _really_ , and to trust a politician with Bratva roots… it is unthinkable. And yet everything within her tells her this risk is worth it.

"Yes. I will tell you everything I know," she swears. "And I will pray that you keep your word or else my father's line will die with me."

"I won't betray you, Katya," he replies. "I want the Bratva out of this city as much as you do."

She laughs sharply at that and looks down at her dress, thinks for a moment about what she has become, who the Bratva has remolded her into. "No offense, Mister Mayor, but I very much doubt you do."

"Maybe not," he concedes. "But I'm not far behind."

And with that, he pulls out his cell phone and punches a few buttons. It's a moment of truth for Katya and she holds her breath as she waits to find out who he's called. But, whoever she had expected, it is most certainly not the person on the other end of the line.

"Hey. It's me," he greets, his voice soft and affectionate, personal, not meant for her ears. She feels a bit like she's intruding even though he clearly could have stepped away if he had wanted to. "No, I know… You're on a… I know, you're busy tonight, Felicity. I just…"

There's a quiet sigh of frustration and the way his shoulders sag and the pain that paints itself across his face all tell a story Katya can read quite well. He is still madly in love with his ex-fiancee. It's her that he's unfailingly faithful to. But she can't help but think he was entirely wrong about being lonely. He needs someone - not _her_ obviously, but _someone_ \- to lean on, someone to be there for him. Of all the men she's ever met, she has to think that he is most deserving of a woman to come home to, to share his time with.

"That thing we were looking for?" he continues, casting a glance toward Katya. "The link to the Bratva operations to help the masks? I think I found her."

A long moment of silence follows and Katya holds her breath as the mayor listens to his ex-fiancee. Of all the ways this night might have turned out, Katya could not have ever anticipated this.

"I know," he says finally. "It's… I'm sorry about the timing. I didn't want to ruin your evening. But this is important. Could you please come by? ...Thank you. Oh, and could you bring some spare clothes, please?"

Part of her think this is some complicated attempt to win his ex-fiancee back, to show her what a good man he is. If it is, if she's right - and she's sure she is the instant he hangs up the phone and stares at the lock screen with so much longing it spills over and races through her, too - she hopes it works.

If anyone deserves not to be lonely, she decides, it's Mayor Queen. Like her, he's been just surviving for entirely too long.


	5. Chapter 5

Josh's apartment needs soundproofing. That's been true since the moment he moved in, right after earning a spot in the Star City Philharmonic Orchestra as First Violinist. After all, as lovely as his playing might be, his neighbors really don't need to be forced into hearing it in their own homes, even if none of them have complained. But it's become more true as time has passed. Just, less because of _him_ and more because of his neighbors.

Or neighbor, really.

The first time he saw her, he walked into the mailbox. He wishes that were a metaphor or an exaggeration, but it's not. Her smile is just so bright, so _open_ that it distracted him and he'd taken a step too many right into the giant steel bank of lockboxes. Fortunately, she hadn't noticed. _Un_ fortunately, that turned out to be because she'd had that brilliant grin targeted at someone specific. And, yeah, the guy had been looking back at her with the exact same haze of joy and affection.

It figured.

Josh had sighed, grabbed his mail and nodded politely at the pair as he'd passed. They'd barely noticed. But that had been okay, Josh had been dealing with other things and his thoughts hadn't lingered on them long.

At least, until he'd realized they were his upstairs neighbors.

He doesn't _try_ to overhear things, but these units really do have surprisingly thin walls given their cost, and the couple upstairs has a tendency to leave their balcony doors open. That might be because the woman - Felicity, he learns after she accidentally gets some of his mail and brings it by one day a week after he moves in - keeps trying to cook and it keeps going incredibly poorly. He'll happily put up with too many overheard conversations rather than repeated building-wide evacuations when she sets off the smoke detector in an attempt to bake.

Felicity's laugh is as bright as her smile and, _okay_ , he can admit to being more than a little smitten with her, but he doesn't get to know her at all until one day in late fall when he's practicing the violin out on his balcony.

It's late morning and the air has just a hint of winter to it. There's been a part of the score that's been bothering him. It's _okay_ but there's a vibrancy that's just lacking. He needs to hone that, to give it spirit, give it _life_. So a brisk morning fourteen floors up it is.

The first few run-throughs are fine. Most people would probably find them impressive, but Josh is a perfectionist and he expects more of himself than technically sufficient. It's when he pauses to make a few notes to himself in the sheet music that he hears a rustling from the upstairs balcony.

"I'm sorry," he calls up after a second. "I hope I'm not bothering you."

" _Oh_ , no!" Felicity's voice calls back, sending a little jolt of a thrill through him. "Not at all."

He hesitates at that, not sure how to respond. "Are you sure? I know… I mean… I know you guys keep late hours sometimes. I really hope I didn't wake you."

She pauses in return and huffs out a chuckle. "Hazards of apartment living, I guess. I hope we haven't woken you up. Sometimes our jobs demand some pretty late hours."

Josh's brow furrows at that. She's a CEO and he's running for mayor. Obviously those are roles that demand a lot out of both of them, but he's not sure how it has either one getting home just before sunrise some nights. Still, it's not his business and Josh isn't about to pry.

"No," he counters before realizing that it's obviously untrue. Clearly she's woken him up on occasion, if he's aware of how late she gets in. "Well… it doesn't bother me anyhow," he clarifies. "Hazards of apartment living, like you said."

"Right…"

He's pretty sure she breathes out a sigh of relief at that.

"Are you done playing, then?" she asks after a beat. Her tone is tinged in disappointment and it makes his heart beat a little faster to realize she's _enjoying_ his music. "Don't stop on my account."

"Are you sure?" he asks, looking up at her balcony, as if he could see straight through it and somehow have this conversation face to face. That would be nice. He'd love to actually see her appreciate his rendition of Mendelssohn's Concerto.

"You kidding?" she scoffs. "It's not every day a girl gets serenaded over morning coffee! ...uh, not that you were. I mean, you weren't playing for me. I know that. I just meant-"

"I know what you meant, Felicity," he replies, grinning to himself as he looks back down at his sheet music.

This is why he started playing. Or, at least, it's why he kept doing it after his parents had insisted on lessons when he was a kid. It isn't just about losing himself in the music. It isn't about the technical aspect of it or the challenge; it's about telling a story. It's about making people feel something. So, when he remembers that, when he finds his voice in this piece of music, the bit that had been missing before today, he knows it's largely thanks to Felicity Smoak.

Truth be told, he's beyond smitten with her after that.

Life goes crazy for a while in the months that follow, more for her than for him, but it's true for both. She gets engaged and shot on the same night, barely surviving and forever changed by her experience. He's glad to see her fiance stays at her side and he decides, largely because of the respect and unwavering affection that Oliver Queen treats her with, that the man has his vote. Josh's life goes a bit nuts shortly after that. His sister _finally_ leaves her jerk of a husband, but that's messy too because even though she's definitely better off without him, he doesn't make the divorce proceedings easy and Josh is more than positive that his ex-brother-in-law is hiding most of his assets. He starts taking on private lessons teaching violin to kids one-on-one, in part because he's always wanted to and in part because he can use the extra cash to help his sister out.

Felicity and Oliver break up and he moves out, something that Josh is both sympathetic about and embarrassingly hopeful because of. She's sad. He can see that, but she doesn't talk about it, at least not with him… which makes sense. He's just a neighbor who plays the violin on his balcony sometimes. But he wishes he could do something to cheer her up.

Then, the whole world ends, or at least it seems like it at the time. A sizable part of Starling City caves into the earth - again - and Josh just counts himself lucky that no one he knows dies in the chaos that follows. He thinks about leaving for a bit, finding somewhere safer, but somehow this has become his home and he finds he'd rather stay.

It's resilient, his city. He respects that about it. No matter what it goes through - and it goes through a lot - it bounces back.

So does Felicity.

He's known her in passing almost a year when he starts seriously considering asking her out for coffee. She's been single for a while, but he's bad at this kind of thing and he really has no idea how long he's supposed to wait after someone breaks up with their fiance before you ask them on a date. He actually asks his sister, but she just laughs at him and tells him to go for it.

She's really no help at all. But then, she's never been an expert on relationships. Her train-wreck of a marriage to that twice-divorced journalist had been proof enough of that.

Still… he wonders if maybe she isn't right this time. After all, he'll never know if he doesn't ask, right? Yes, he resolves. He's gonna do it. He's going to ask her for coffee. God, he's _nervous_. That's so silly. It's just coffee, even if she says yes. That's as casual as it gets. Anxiety courses through him anyhow, his heart pounds double-time in his chest and his hands sweat even _thinking_ about asking her out. But it could be worth it - it could be so very worth it - and something in him tells him to take a chance with her.

Tomorrow, he decides, because he's pretty sure she's not home right now - she's rarely home this early in the evening. Tomorrow he'll ask her.

At least, that's his plan right up until he hears her door shut heavily five minutes later and he hears a voice he hasn't heard except on television in months.

" _God_ , Felicity."

Yup… that'd be the mayor. Josh's heart sinks at the man's voice and instantly all his plans fly out the window.

"Shhh," Felicity hushes. "Sofa, now. And get that shirt off, Mister."

There's a squeak from their sofa - _her_ sofa - and a groan that Josh had absolutely hoped he would never hear from his mayor ever again. He'd voted for the guy, but _come on_.

"...Felicity… I don't want to get the sofa dirty."

"Would you just let me take care of you, Oliver? Forget the sofa. You picked it anyhow."

Her voice is soft and full of affection and Josh doesn't know if they're back together or if this is some vodka-fueled exes-with-benefits thing, but either way he's wondering if he has earplugs lying around.

"You don't have to help me out," Oliver counters sadly. "I can take care of it on my own."

Well, there's a mental image that makes Josh shudder, thanks for that Mr. Mayor.

"I want to," Felicity counters softly before hesitating. "Unless you don't want me touching you?"

The choked laugh that comes in response is dry and self-derisive and while Josh has no idea what the details of their breakup included, he's immediately certain that Oliver Queen had not been the one who'd left, in spite of which one of them kept the apartment.

"We both know that I do, Felicity," Oliver tells her.

A moment later, the mayor hisses and Josh finds himself wondering if she's left the balcony door open again, because it's so stupidly loud he feels like he's in the room with them and he absolutely does not want to be at all.

"But what about you? Aren't you-" Oliver starts.

"I'm fine. I'm good," Felicity cuts him off. "You took care of me earlier, remember?"

"Hon- ...Felicity," Oliver corrects himself. It's sharp enough and fast enough that it's pretty clear that was a slip and they're not officially back together at this point. So… exes with benefits it is, then. Josh sighs. She deserves better than that. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sore, Oliver," she replies. It's at this point that Josh starts digging around drawers for his best set of headphones. "That's all."

It seems like the mayor is going to say something else but instead he gasps a few times, loudly in quick succession.

"Oh, this needed attention more than I thought," Felicity tells him. "Have you been like this the whole night?"

"Since you got there," Oliver groans.

"We should talk about tonight," she tells him.

" _Now_?" he asks, incredulity ringing in his voice.

Josh sort of agrees with him, because wow this does not seem like the moment for a conversation of substance for them, and _why can he not find anything but broken earbuds_?

"You did good tonight, Oliver," she tells him, making Josh pause because he really has absolutely no idea what they're talking about at this point. "I'm proud of you, proud of _us_."

"We make a hell of a team," he replies through labored breaths. "We always have."

"Yeah…" she agrees a little distantly. "We have. But tonight… I don't know, it just reminded me of a lot of things. Of the start. Of why we were a team in the first place. Of why all this works and how important it is."

There's a long pause after that and Josh finds he's actually waiting to hear how the mayor responds, because this feels like a turning point. And, as much as he doesn't want to be here for this, he also can't help his curiosity.

"You've always brought out the best in me, Felicity," Oliver tells her finally. "And I'd like to think I help bring out the best in you."

"You do," she tells him quickly. "Whatever we are, you do. But..."

"But what?" he asks. There's so much nervousness in his voice, so much hesitance that it spills over and Josh feels it too.

"But… I guess I thought that would fade away," Felicity admits. "With us not… _us_ , that somehow I'd eventually love you less, love who _I am_ when I'm with you less. But it hasn't worked out that way."

" _Good_."

His voice is gritty and raw and strikingly affected. It's by far the most voyeuristic Josh has felt since this whole debacle started.

"The work you did tonight… organized crime in this city is going to have a hard time recovering from that, Mayor Queen," she tells him.

"The work _we_ did tonight," he corrects. "And I hope so."

"You're a good mayor, Oliver," she tells him. "Maybe not the best at politics, but you care so much about this city and the people in it. That's what makes you a good mayor. And it's what makes you a good man."

"Not good enough," he says sadly.

She's quiet for a moment after that before clearing her throat. When she does finally reply, it's soft enough that Josh barely hears it.

"I'm not exactly sure about that," she says.

"Felicity…"

The way Oliver says her name is both hopeful and pained, like he wants to believe she's saying something but he's terrified to believe it, like maybe he can't take it if he's wrong.

"I don't want to talk about this right now," she tells him, sounding a touch uncomfortable even though _she's_ the one who brought it up.

"Soon?" he asks. "Can we… I mean, will you…"

"I'll meet you for coffee," she decides. "Tomorrow afternoon at the park across from your office? If you're free that is. I don't want to assume..."

She hasn't said a time, but Josh is pretty sure that doesn't matter. There's not a doubt in his mind that the mayor would cancel absolutely anything else to meet her for coffee. So… at least _someone_ has a coffee date with her.

"Yes," he agrees. "I'm free. Absolutely."

"Good…" she says in a rush of breath. "Good. So, um… let's take care of this and get you cleaned up. Then I need to call Thea and Katya, let them know she doesn't have to hide out at Thea's place anymore."

He moans her name and it turns into a rapid-fire series of gasps. It's right about then that Josh decides headphones just aren't gonna cut it. He needs soundproofing, but since he doesn't have that, he's going to go stay the night at his sister's.

He wants Felicity to smile. He wants to see her happy again, wearing that blinding grin that inspires music and joy. If he can't be the one making her that joyful, that's fine, but he can't possibly sit around and listen to her indulging in a night with her ex and making plans that clearly start them down the road to coupledom once again.

Grabbing his wallet and keys, Josh heads out the door, locking it behind him and heading toward the elevator, away from the sound of the mayor moaning his crush's name.

Tomorrow, he decides. He calls for a quote to soundproof his apartment tomorrow.


	6. Chapter 6

There hasn't been any snow yet this year, but Emma's pretty sure this is as cold as it's going to get. The crocuses are blooming, signs of life peeking through in an otherwise barren winter. She loves them, those pretty, hardy little purple flowers. They're as resilient as they are beautiful and there's something rare and special about that.

It's the kind of day where you can breathe in, shut your eyes and let possibility wash over you. Christmas looms just a week away and she's officially on winter break from school. It's a crisp, bright day at the playground where she has nothing but time.

For Emma, life's pretty close to perfect.

There aren't many kids playing today - most of them can't seem to bear the cold - but that's okay. It's not for everyone. She knows that. But there's something about this time of year that leaves a sense of anticipation tingling along her skin, sends a rush of excitement through her veins. The other kids can keep their iPads and cartoons. Emma would rather have this.

Her mom sits on the other side of the park, chatting with some lady holding a baby. As curious as Emma is about people, the baby is whiny and at eight years old she has no patience for that. So, she dangles from the monkey bars for a bit, looking at the world upside down and taking in the way it's all exactly the same and completely different at the same time.

It's funny what a change in perspective can offer.

She doesn't spot him at first, not until the blood rushes to her head and she has to right herself, sitting atop the monkey bars instead of hanging from them, but when she does, he strikes her as familiar and it piques her interest.

There's a nervousness about him that's obvious even to a third grader from twenty feet away. Not a single wrinkle mars his charcoal gray suit, but he keeps straightening it anyhow, like his hands need something to do and have run out of options. He winces a bit when he moves his arm, like maybe he got hurt and had forgotten about it, but then he spots her looking his way and he smiles.

That's when she recognizes him.

Hopping down from the playset, she approaches him with curiosity, leaves crunching under her boots, crisp, colorful things that swirl about the ground in eddys, scraping the pavement with whisper-like noises. It's almost like they're telling their stories, relating how they got here.

Emma likes stories. She likes piecing them together.

"Hiya," she greets.

"Hello," he says, looking around the park. "You probably shouldn't talk to strangers, you know."

"You're not a stranger," she tells him. "You're the mayor. My Aunt Christy talks about you all the time. She says you're the best. And my mom's right over there anyhow."

His eyes don't follow the direction she's pointing though. No, he's blinking at her in surprise instead, appraising her anew. It's funny, Emma thinks, how much people miss until they're looking for it.

"You're Christy's niece?" he asks, his brow furrowing as he visibly searches his memory. "Emma?"

"Uh huh," she confirms, shifting back and forth onto the balls of her feet with an excited energy. "She calls you Mayor Abs-a-lot, but that's not your real name, is it?"

His cheeks turn red as he chuckles and shakes his head, scratching at the back of his neck. Even at eight Emma realizes it's not the cold making him blush.

"It's Mayor Queen," he tells her, clearing his throat. "Or Oliver."

"Seems kinda rude to call the mayor by his first name, don't you think?" she questions, wrinkling her nose.

"I don't know," he shrugs, wincing again slightly when his arm moves. "I think it's okay, but your aunt might disagree."

"Well it's better than Mayor Abs-a-lot, 'cause that's not even your name," Emma tells him matter of factly.

He laughs at that, full-throated and obviously amused, right up until he hisses in pain and bites his lips together, putting his hand to his side.

"Are you hurt?" Emma asks in concern, stepping another foot toward him.

"I'm fine," he counters quickly, giving what must be meant to be a reassuring smile but does nothing to convince Emma. Something on her face must show she doesn't quite believe him because after a moment he amends the statement with "I'm healing."

That she believes.

"Sometimes things hurt more when they're still healing," she tells him knowingly.

"Sometimes they do," he agrees, looking at her like she's surprised him. Aunt Christy was right, she decides immediately, he is pretty great because he seems like he's _listening_ and that's something Emma's decided a lot of adults have forgotten how to do.

"Whatcha doing here, anyhow?" Emma asks. "It's too cold out for most people."

"It is kind of chilly," he agrees. "But, I've been through worse. I'll be fine."

"You're silly, you know that?" Emma questions. "Sometimes it doesn't take much to make things a whole lot better. All you had to do was put on a coat."

He shakes his head at her again, something like bewilderment in his eyes as he looks at her, and she wonders what exactly she said.

"You're a pretty smart kid, you know that, Emma?" he asks.

"I know," she acknowledges. For some reason that makes him chuckle again, but it's true… she does know and she doesn't see a reason to deny it. "If you're cold, why don't you go back inside?"

City Hall is right across the street. It's not a very far walk. Sometimes her Aunt Christy even meets her at this park for lunch.

"You could even just go grab your coat," she suggests.

"I'm waiting for someone," he tells her. It's funny how soft his voice sounds when he says it. His hands fiddle with his tie again and he licks his lips as he looks down to a pair of coffee cups at his side.

"Would they wait for you?" Emma asks, looking from him back toward City Hall.

"I don't know," the mayor says after a moment. "I hope so, but I'm not sure anymore. I'll wait, though. I'll wait for her."

"She's late?" Emma questions, eyes shifting back to look at him.

"Yeah… she's late," he agrees, sighing as he swallows and looks up at the clear blue sky.

He's worried, Emma thinks. He's worried because she's not here yet. He thinks maybe she won't come at all.

"Don't worry," Emma says. "She's gonna show up."

"Why do you think that?" he asks, looking back at her.

It's obvious, isn't it? It is to Emma, anyhow, and she thinks maybe he should have figured this out, but apparently he needs to be told.

"'Cause you kept waiting."

She expects him to tell her that's not always true, that the world's more complicated than that sometimes, a verbal pat on the head. Emma's used to that from grown ups. Most of them, she finds, are far too caught up in the day-to-day series of chores that make up their lives to stop and listen to her, to consider possibility, to step outside into the crisp air, take a breath and hold it in.

The mayor, however, is different.

He hums quietly as a response, looking up at the sky again - not his watch, she notices; it doesn't matter how late the woman he's meeting is, he'll keep waiting. He closes his eyes, inhales deeply and waits.

A light breeze sets the leaves around her feet in a lively dance, teasing at her ankles with their paper-thin whispers of what they were like in life. They'll be gone soon. Their time's done. But that's okay. Emma likes them, but she likes the crocuses better and the hints of spring to come that they bring with them.

She runs off to the swings, intent on enjoying the afternoon and the last gasps of fall before it fades away entirely. The chains rattle as she climbs up onto the creaking seat and pumps her legs. With the breeze at her back, she swings.

After a while - she's not sure how long and she's certain the mayor isn't either - steady clicks against the pavement draw Emma's attention and she looks up to find a woman with a purple coat and a blonde ponytail hurrying toward the mayor on the bench. She's late, but the way she rushes along the sidewalk makes Emma think maybe she's trying to catch up now.

"I'm so sorry," the woman apologizes in a tumble of words as she closes in on the mayor. With the way his eyes light up in relief at the sight of her, Emma's pretty sure it's far more important to him that she showed up than that she was late. "There was a thing with the thing in that place and then Curtis called because he blew something up. Literally. Like _kaboom_. It's fine. He's fine. But it might have been a setback for our project and… why are you looking at me like that?"

"It's nothing," he tells her, handing her what has to be a now-cold coffee as she sits at his side. "I'm just glad you're here, Felicity… Hi."

That seems to derail her some. Whatever they're meeting about, Emma suspects the woman hadn't figured out much past the greeting and now that that's done, she's at a bit of a loss.

"...Hi," she echoes back, holding his gaze for a long silent beat before looking down at the coffee cup in her hands and blinking hard. "Thanks for waiting."

"Always," he answers, staring at her as he speaks. The single word is so heavy, so incredibly rife with meaning that it makes the woman shiver as her eyes dart up to look at him. There's hesitance there, like she's afraid to believe him, like she wants to believe him so much that it scares her.

"How'd you know I was still coming?" she asks, wariness and reservation settling over her like a second coat.

"I didn't," he answers plainly. "But I did know you were worth waiting for."

"...Oliver." She shakes her head and looks away again.

It's hard sometimes to trust a situation when you're getting everything you want. The mayor is smart, though. He doesn't push. He gives her the space and time to collect her thoughts and start anew.

"You wanted to talk," the woman says after a moment, clearing her throat and brushing some of her hair behind her ear. "So maybe we should - you know - talk."

"Okay," he agrees easily. "Where do you want to start?"

It's an open offer, a blank page, and he's letting her dictate the start of the story that follows.

"With you," the woman decides after a moment, setting her coffee aside and looking up at her companion. Their shoulders brush and there's a hesitant hopefulness about both of them that Emma's just too little to understand, but the gravity of it all sits with her anyhow.

"What do you want to know?" the mayor asks, eyes etched with vulnerability.

"Anything," the woman replies with a quiet disbelieving laugh. " _Everything_ ," she clarifies. "The secrets you kept, why you kept them. Not just with William, but before that, too. Start from the beginning."

"The beginning…" he echoes, swallowing heavily as he looks down at the bench between them.

"Yes," the woman replies softly. From her spot on the swings, Emma watches as the the blonde's fingers nervously reach for his. His eyes snap to their hands and he makes a choked noise before his eyes slam shut like he's trying to burn the image of her fingers against his behind his eyelids. "The beginning, Oliver," she tells him, her voice trembling as his hand curls around hers in an exceedingly gentle hold, like he's been given something fragile and he's terrified he's going to break it.

He nods. "In the beginning… In the beginning, I got on a boat. Let's start there."

The woman's breath catches in her throat as she looks at him in surprise. Hope lines her eyes and there's a sense of wonder there. Emma has no idea what's about to follow, but she is sure it's one heck of a story.

"Emma! Time for violin lessons. Come on," her mom shouts from the other side of the playground.

"Coming mom!" she yells back, hopping off of the swing with a solid thud. She offers a smile toward the mayor and the woman with him, but they're talking in hushed voices and neither of them notice her. They only have eyes for each other. Emma doesn't mind though, it seems like it's kind of a big moment for them, like there's a shift happening right before her.

Part of her wants to stay, to watch this story unfold, but she can't. Her mom waits, purse in hand, and music lessons beckon. So, she runs off, grabbing her violin case as she casts one last glance back at the couple on the bench.

She won't get to stick around to see how this ends. But, she thinks, at least she got to see how it starts.


End file.
